


Full Service

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, First Time, M/M, Rimming, Shower Sex, Underage Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Dean’s a double scoop cone of chocolate. He’s rocky road with extra fudge. He’s strawberry with candy sprinkles and whipped cream. He’s a fucking banana split with six cherries on top, and Sam’s been starving for years.





	Full Service

Dean is fucking beautiful.

Sam’s not biased. Honest. It’s not just because he’s in love with him and he thinks Dean put every star in the sky and always has. Everybody thinks so. Everybody. People stop on the street when they walk by sometimes. He’s seen a guy walk into a phone pole because he saw Dean with his teenage-lean, bare arm draped on the open car window while they waited at a redlight. Girls at schools across America cry and starve themselves and scratch each other’s eyes out over him. Sam’s pretty sure he’s even seen Dad’s eyes linger a little too long when Dean gets out of the shower sometimes.

He doesn’t blame any of them. Dean really and truly is _that_ beautiful.

He’s sixteen now, the ripest fruit in the whole garden, and Sam and his dick are in constant agony.

But Sam has a secret: he’s seen the way Dean looks at him, too.

When he looks at his own reflection in the dingy mirrors on the backs of bathroom doors in their nightly home, he doesn’t fucking get it. Doesn’t see anything worth staring at. Even when he stretches up to be real tall and makes his shoulders as broad as possible. Just… nothing. He’s still a string bean, still got ribs poking through pale skin, still mostly hairless except for some sprouting so few and far in between that it’s fucking embarrassing.

Still. Maybe someday. He knows he’ll never be Dean-beautiful, but they have the same parents. He’s at least got a chance.

 

He pokes his head out of the steamy bathroom and squints into the cold-blasted air conditioning of the main room, hoping beyond all hope that it’s empty, that Dean joined Dad on whatever recon mission he’s on in this rat’s nest of a town in Missouri.

Dean looks up from his sprawl on their shared bed where he’s got a grease rag spread out under his disassembled gun, some of its guts in his hands so he can meticulously clean it.

Sam’s eyes zero in, his dick pulsing under the damp towel slung around his hips; what could Dean do to his dick, if he’s that good with taking apart a gun.

“You done?” Dean asks, his eyes down as he grips the recoil spring and slips it back into the slide. He glances up once he reattaches the slide and sets the gun down, his fingers shining with gun oil. Sam feels the drag of his eyes from his damp chest up to his face, the only parts of him not hidden behind the door.

“Oh,” Sam manages, giving one last press of his hips against the door before he opens it and steps out into the room, trying to keep his steps normal and not make it painfully obvious that the overly-big dick between his legs is aching just from the mortification that Dean’s gonna watch him change and from the knowledge that Dean’s fingers are lubed up right fucking now.

“Yeah,” he continues, holding onto the towel so it doesn’t fall while he leans over and grabs his bag, his eyes down as he rummages through it for clean clothes. “Where’s--”

“Out talkin’ to some geezer he knows here. At a bar, so,” Dean trails off with a verbal shrug, and Sam feels his belly tense. Dad at a bar means he won’t be back until sometime well after midnight, which means the next few hours are just him and his pornstar brother.

“Shower’s open,” Sam offers weakly, clutching a pair of clean Kmart undies in his fist.

“No, duh,” Dean snarks, and he’s grinning when Sam looks up. His hair is longer than it’s ever been, paled by the sun and hanging down against his cheeks, defying Dad’s constant remarks that he needs to cut it because he looks like a girl, and his mouth looks juicy-fat even when it’s stretched out into a smile.

Sam feels like a fucking cartoon with hearts spinning around his head.

“Water pressure’s great,” Sam tells him, distracting himself from his sickness and Dean from the fact that he’s yanking on his boxers under the towel before he yanks it off. He knows those are magic words for Dean, and he feels relieved and saddened when he looks back up to find Dean’s eyes on the open door to the damp bathroom instead of on his scrawny body.

He almost makes an actual sound when he sighs.

He pulls on a ratty Megadeth t-shirt that used to belong to Dean-after-Dad, scratching through the blown-out hole in the armpit at his scraggly hairs there. 

_One day_ , he reminds himself. _One fucking day._

The shower sounds loud when it starts up again, and Sam realizes with a loud lust-thump of his heart that Dean left the bathroom door cracked. He glances back at the front door to the motel room, making sure the locks are in place and listening for the unexpected rumble of the Impala.

Nothing. Still and quiet, except the rush of water from the bathroom.

He hesitates, but only because he’s good at lying to himself. He drops the towel somewhere between here and there and ends up in front of the bathroom again, pressed against the door frame and peeking in.

The shower has a door, one of those sliding glass things with perfectly clear glass, like they’re encouraging voyeurs and pervs, but it’s already steamed up from two showering boys.

He can see Dean through the blur of condensation though, can see the outline of his body: his narrow waist, broad shoulders, the girl-pretty round of his ass in profile.

“Oh, god,” Sam sighs to himself, fingers digging into the cheap wood frame, hips pressing forward to give his dick some relief. He just wants to pull the door back. Just wants to see. Wants to watch water sliding down Dean’s body, wants to see the way soap obscures pretty parts only to be washed away a few seconds later, wants to see the way Dean touches himself, wants to know if he’s rough and careless or if he’s almost gentle, like he knows just how beautiful he is, knows that a body like that should be treated carefully.

The strange sound of a hand wiping over fogged-up glass yanks Sam out of his daydreams, and he finds himself staring right into Dean’s eyes through the shower door, the surprise on Dean’s face so genuine and startled that Sam feels his dick shiver out some love for it.

It’s quiet between them for a long moment, just the sound of water splashing over Dean’s body and the mildewy shower, but the slow rattle of the shower door being opened tears into the silence.

Suddenly Dean is there in vivid color, the lines of him excruciatingly clear.

“You forget somethin’?” Dean tries, attempting to give Sam an out, if he wants one. The horrified little brother in him is desperate for one, but his over-stimulated libido really, really fucking doesn’t.

He shakes his head and holds Dean’s eyes, staying right where he is. He doesn’t even realize that his tongue slides out to lick over his lips, a wolf lusting after a lamb. Dean’s eyes somehow round out even wider, the green of them heartbreakingly bright against the mustard yellow of the seventies bathroom.

“What do you want?” he finally asks, not at all in a ‘do you need a towel or a toothbrush or to piss’ and so very much in a ‘just fucking say it, one of us has to’ kinda way.

“Wanna watch,” Sam tells him, his voice not low enough yet to be gruff, but the breathiness of it gives away how turned on he is just fine. Long lashes flutter over green as Dean processes that, as he unravels the nuances of Sam’s perversion, but he recovers quickly.

“C’mon and close the door, then,” he says, slicking his hair back from his face and wiping the dripping water from his eyes. Sam reaches back and shoves the door closed, clumsily eager as a virgin, and he drops down onto the closed toilet seat and faces the shower, a puppy waiting for a treat.

Dean pushes the glass door all the way back, revealing the secret insides of the shower and his wet, naked body. Sam shifts on the toilet seat, his hands already in his lap and covering his dick, gripping it like he wants to choke it.

“Floor’s gonna get all wet,” Dean offers in a weak protest, licking waterdrops off his damp lips. His lashes are so dark when they’re wet, clumped together like falsies.

“I’ll clean it up,” Sam says back too quickly, leaning back against the corner of the toilet tank so he can really watch. “Just… just go ahead.”

“You just want me to shower?” Dean asks, washcloth already in his hand, dripping with soap. 

Sam nods, his eyes lazing in satisfaction already. He sucks on his bottom lip as he lets his eyes drag luxuriously over Dean’s body when he starts to soap himself up, getting caught up on the meat of his thighs, the scant softness of his lower belly, the stiff points of his nipples that top off plenty of a mouthful for a little brother, the almost heartbreakingly sweet sight of his limp cock resting against his balls, just big enough while it’s soft to fit whole in Sam’s mouth, to be something for him to nurse on while he goes to sleep.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“You goin’ to sleep on me?” Dean asks with a smirk, the cloth splayed on his perfect stomach, about to slide down lower. He meets Sam’s eyes without self-consciousness, with a naturally arched back and perfect posture and ohmygod, Sam needs to worship.

“God, no,” Sam mumbles back, moving his hands to show Dean the impressive twelve-year-old tent in his boxers before he stuffs a hand down the waist of them and grabs hold of his dick. “Turn around? Let me… let me see--”

“Ah,” Dean says before Sam can even get the rest of his sentence out, the smile on his face curling into something much more indulgent. “I get what you’re after now.”

Dean rinses all the soap from his body and turns in the shower so he’s facing the wall, away from Sam. It’s so immediately perfect, so exactly what Sam wants that he has to reach down fast and grip the base of his dick, heading off the embarrassingly quick need to come before it can happen. This needs to fucking last, damnit.

Dean’s ass is in full view just for him, dripping wet and supple from squats and toned from Dad’s training and just soft enough that it would jiggle if it was played with or slapped or fucked. Sam knows from porn. And he’s been thinking about it real, real fucking hard.

“This what you want, Sammy?” Dean asks, his voice quieted by the water but echoing off the tile, and Sam’s nasty hand travels up the length of his dick and back down just as fast as his balls quiver.

“Fuck, yes,” Sam whispers, a twelve-year-old with the mouth of a college frat boy, raised on scrambled porno channels and X-rated stories in the dirty mags Dad keeps in the trunk. “Ohmygod, Dean.”

He licks his lips, his throat suddenly dry, his hand stripping his own dick fast and damp with slick he can’t stop dribbling out. 

“No, it’s not,” Dean says with a laugh that twists Sammy’s balls, that makes him worry for a masochistic minute that Dean’s gonna just stop all of this, gonna turn off the shower and head out into the night to find a girl to fuck. Just the thought makes tears burn in Sam’s eyes.

But Dean’s so good. So fucking good for him. 

“Yeah, Dean, i-it is. I swear it is,” he promises, staring right at the stripper-pretty round of his brother’s ass and trying to work up a rational argument while he jerks his dick, but Dean, as always, is a few steps ahead of him. 

“You sure you don’t want…” Dean spreads his legs a little, back arching harder as he bends his knees, and suddenly his hand appears from between his legs, reaching back like a girl to spread his ass cheeks apart with long fingers, giving Sam the first flash of his future addiction.

It’s shadowed and a little hairy and not nearly close enough to his mouth, but there it is: Dean’s snug, warm asshole. 

Sam feels his knees hit the tile but he doesn’t know that he’s shuffling closer until he’s stopped by the edge of the tub. He feels the mist from the shower spray and feels the heat of the water and of Dean’s body, and even Dean’s not long enough to lean on the shower wall and stretch his ass back closer to Sam’s face, so Sam takes matters into his own hands for the first time and grabs on to Dean’s thighs and pulls him back.

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean nearly yelps, stumbling a little before catching himself on the metal frame of the shower door. Sam can tell he’s about to lecture him some more, about to talk about head injuries and Dad coming home, so he gives all his attention to the tight, freckled ass in front of him by pushing his face against it and nuzzling in between Dean’s cheeks, letting his tongue slide out lick flat and wet at Dean’s asshole.

“Ohmygod,” Dean mumbles from overhead, his left hand sliding back to tangle in Sam’s damp hair to keep his face pressed exactly where it is. Sam tightens his grip on Dean’s thighs, feeling the slick prickle of hair on them as he pulls Dean deeper back onto his mouth, his neck straining as he digs in hard and lets his nose nestle right up under Dean’s tailbone.

He lets out a soft, unsure whimper, such a little brother sound, even as he’s pressing licking kisses all over Dean’s hole.

 _Tell me what to do,_ is what he wants to say but has too much pride to ever voice.

“K-Keep lickin’ it,” Dean tells him, his fingers trembling at Sam’s nape, his other hand busy between his own legs, the slick sound of cock being worked making Sam’s skin heat up. “Like you’re eatin’ an ice cream cone.”

Dean’s a double scoop cone of chocolate. He’s rocky road with extra fudge. He’s strawberry with candy sprinkles and whipped cream. He’s a fucking banana split with six cherries on top, and Sam’s been starving for years.

He licks so hard and so deep that his tongue gets tired almost immediately, but the punched-out, hurt sounds Dean’s making up there ensure that Sam won’t stop until his fucking jaw falls off. It’s amazing to have Dean’s taste in his mouth, to be swallowing down mouthfuls of spit that are brother-flavored. It’s too fucking good to know that his breath’s gonna smell like his brother’s asshole for the rest of the night.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s got his own dick back in his hand, and he’s making sweet love to his fist.

Dean’s hole softens up after awhile, after some Sam Winchester-focused tongue massaging, because the tip of his tongue slips inside like a key in a secret lock. Dean jolts for that, skidding on the slick shower floor and taking Sam with him. His ribs dick in hard against the edge of the tub, against the metal track for the door, and the promise of a bruise there isn’t enough to deter him, to make him let go of Dean’s thigh or to stop trying to get to the candy center of his brother, now that he knows it exists.

“Fuck yeah Sammy eat my ass eat my fuckin’ ass little brother _shit_ ,” Dean babbles, his sweet little asshole blooming against Sam’s slurping tongue and letting him in a little deeper, muscle fighting against stubborn muscle. He flexes his tongue inside his brother’s ass as much as he can, wiggling it around and tasting the bittersweet tang of him, the part of Dean that’s still unwashed, that Sam is a nasty fucking junkie for already, before he even hits high school.

It’s when Sam discovers there’s enough looseness to Dean’s asshole now that he can suck on it that Dean really starts to lose it, when he starts to convulse standing up and his thigh starts to tremble in Sam’s one-handed grip and his ass starts to shudder around Sam’s buried face and Sam’s balls start to tense up and Dean’s making some pay-by-the-hour sounds as he comes on the shower wall and Sam comes against the side of the tube and on his own skinny thighs, ruined forever by the knowledge of the way Dean’s hole flutters when he comes, of the way it throbs like a heartbeat, that it would do exactly that around his dick if it was shoved inside, too.

Dean’s doing the impossible now, stretched out so that his burning cheek can press against the wall but his ass is stuck out far enough that Sam can slop on it some more, one of Dean’s feet propped up on the side of the tub, the floor absolutely flooded with water under Sam’s bent knees. 

Sam pulls back and reaches up with both hands to yank Dean’s ass apart, staring enthralled at the deep pink quiver of his hole that is softened up and slick with spit and still pulsing, still needy. He slides his right hand in, fingers covered with his own spunk and pushes three of them inside of his brother, no real understanding of prep or lube or stretching him out, just knowing that he wants to feel Dean throb, that he wants to leave some of his own jizz in here, like in the really good videos.

“Fuck, Sam! Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, ending on a surprised huff of laughter that sounds almost like he’s blushing, but he doesn’t pull away. He keeps his back arched so that Sam can fuck at him with three straight fingers, plugging him up and feeding his middle school load as deep in his brother’s ass as he possibly can, his eyes wide and unblinking, watching with the focus of a zealot, of an obsessive mad scientist.

He’s gonna get inside there. Really, really fucking soon.

The front door opens suddenly, a snick of a lock and a turn of a knob and the bustle of Dad is suddenly Here.

“Dean, I told you to salt the windows and the door!” he calls, dropping his keys on the uneven table by the door. Sam freezes, his fingers in Dean’s ass still, curling in sudden fear and accidentally finding Dean’s prostate for the first time.

Dean’s ass trembles just like Sam dreamed it would, his brother’s whole body shivering as he tries to fuck back on Sam’s hand in spite of himself. Dean swallows a whimper and shoves back hard, getting Sam’s fingers all the way in until he’s sitting on his knuckles before he yanks off of them, leaving Sam with his fingers curled and hovering in mid-air. He sucks them into his mouth and flies to his feet.

“Flush the toilet,” Dean hisses from the shower, grabbing the shampoo and shoving the glass door closed again. “Pretend you were pissing.”

“Boys, where the hell are--”

“Damnit, Sam!” Dean yelps when Sam flushes the toilet and the water goes icy cold, and Sam grabs a towel to throw at the edge of the shower, giving his reflection a quick glance in the mirror before he yanks open the door and walks out into the room, trying to look casual and like he didn’t just toss his big brother’s salad.

“You little shit,” Dad says with a tired grin from the chair where he’s unlacing his boots, the meeting with the old dude apparently a bust. “You two better not use all the hot water.”

“You should take a nice, long shower,” Sam advises, yanking the covers down on the bed he’s gonna share with Dean and crawling under, grabbing up his little copy of _Howl_ on the nightstand, already daydreaming about what parts of his brother he can get his mouth on while Dad’s in the shower. “The water pressure’s great.”


End file.
